Ballast
by Child of Loki
Summary: When the boys get into trouble, can Brody figure out what's happened before it's too late? (An excuse for Brody badassery)
1. 10:00am

**Disclaimer: I don't own **_**NCIS: New Orleans **_**or its characters…**

**Author's note: Um… yeah. Probably shouldn't have rewatched like ALL of the episodes this past weekend. So horribly addicted to these characters. I think because their rapport seems so much more genuine than in some of the other NCIS series where they go for the cheap shot, not considering how that reflects on the relationship of the characters. You get the teasing in the NOLA team, but it's not as derogatory. At any rate, little idea for an action-adventure fic popped into my head.**

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><p><strong><span>ballast<span>: _n_. Something that gives stability.**

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><p>"Look what we got here."<p>

Christopher LaSalle shined his light on the black waterproof case sitting in the few inches of water. He heard the slogging footfalls of his senior agent as the man came up behind him, shining his own light on the container. LaSalle crouched down, flipped the latches on the container and opened it, feeling sort of like John Travolta looking into the briefcase in Pulp Fiction. Especially since the light reflected off its contents no doubt bathed his face in a golden glow.

"Bet that's about equivalent to half a dozen stolen Sumerian artifacts?" Agent Dwayne Pride asked.

"Shame those bastard looters melted down an invaluable piece of history for greed," LaSalle said.

"Never took you for an amateur archaeologist, Christopher."

"I'm a complex man, King."

Pride laughed, a full infectious sort of sound that put a grin on LaSalle's face, who was about to comment further about the complicated nature of his intellectual interests when a loud boom echoed through the dark compartment. He exchanged a concerned glance with his boss.

"I thought we were clear about them holdin' off on unloadin' until we were through with our search," Pride said, the grimace informing LaSalle precisely what the older man thought. _Not good._

"That was no cargo container bein' moved."

The two agents hastily made their way back to the ladder they'd had to climb down into the ballast hold, hefting the case of gold along. Looking up, they simultaneously swore aloud.

The loud clang had been the sound of the solid metal porthole slamming shut. LaSalle holstered his sidearm and began climbing up the metal rungs, until he was able to reach up and push against the heavy steel door.

"No dice," he called down to the man who was now apparently his cellmate. "We're locked in. Think I should try hammerin' down the door?"

"You can try, but seein' as the only ones out there are likely those who locked us in..."

LaSalle sighed.

"Damn. What are we gonna do?"

The more experienced agent's silence was less than reassuring. Things were looking grim, but they could be-_ oh shit._

"That's not what I think it is?"

"If you think it's the sound of water being pumped into the ballast tank," Pride said in a voice loud enough to cover the din. "Then I'll have to give you credit for maritime knowledge as well as an archaeological penchant."

"An' let me guess," Chris said. "We're in the ballast tank."

He hammered on the metal of the sealed bulkhead, calling out for anyone that could hear... just in case a Good Samaritan rather than a bad guy happened to be outside.

Far below, the water began to rise...

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><p><strong>AN: I obviously don't have intimate knowledge of the workings of cargo vessels, but I did attempt to do a little research, so hopefully this isn't going to be distractingly wrong as to ruin the purely fictional fun. **


	2. 11:00am

**Author's Note: Even though this isn't really a mystery, even the small little plot here required some research and thought (not in keeping with my winging it sort of writing style), hence the delay in updating. Got it sorted now, though, so hopefully there will be more frequent updates.**

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><p>Agent Meredith Brody entered the New Orleans' NCIS office, expecting friendly greetings from her coworkers. Or, at least a distracted 'welcome back' if they were busy.<p>

She received neither.

The building seemed quite desolate. She'd talked to LaSalle yesterday, and he said things were pretty dead, but the agents surely wouldn't have both taken off? Someone had to be on call in case of emergency. Or had they figured that just coming back from her triannual evaluation in D.C. (her flagged status for past mistakes annoyingly meaning that her supervising agent's performance review wasn't enough to satisfy the bureaucracy), she wouldn't mind sitting around waiting for some excitement to befall their little office after the tedious week.

"Hello?" she tried. "Anybody home?"

No reply came, so she did a quick search of the building, pulling out her cell phone and calling the senior agent as she made her rounds. It went to voicemail.

"Hey, Pride. It's Brody. Just got back in, wondering where everyone's at. Give me a call when you can."

As LaSalle's phone rang on and on and on... Brody began to develop a very uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. She paced about in front of her desk as the call finally went to voicemail and that uneasy feeling turned into a knot. Something was up. It was 11am. There were still signs of breakfast lingering in the kitchen sink, and the place had gotten a little cluttered again in her absence. She shuddered to recall the mess it had been when she'd first arrived all those months ago.

It might be nothing, but... she walked over to LaSalle's desk. There was a partially constructed plastic block sculpture and a plethora of random lego spread across the desktop, strewn over, under and in piles of paperwork. A glance over at Agent Pride's space informed her his neatness level was no higher. _Men_. Well, at least these two...

Brody pawed through the items on LaSalle's desk with extreme caution. Firstly, because she was aware of the invasion into his space that it was, especially when maybe he and Pride had just gone out for an early lunch. And secondly, because she feared what might lay hidden amongst the debris... a molding half eaten sandwich, maybe. Or a rat feasting upon such an offering.

Just some old personnel files, potentially relevant to a current case, or just something the agent had never bothered to properly file away. For all of his multitasking abilities, LaSalle was poor at organization... at least any sensical organization. Brody had to admit that maybe it did make sense in his own brain.

She started with an outcry on her lips, pulling her hand hastily away.

Ew! Ew! Ew! Why were men so _disgusting?_! Her fingers had come in contact with something... _soggy_...

She warily lifted the corner of the last file she'd glanced at, and reassured herself it was merely the a remaining bite of a jelly donut, oozing its contents onto the desktop, rather than something even more disturbing.

Brody decided to move on to Pride's desk, which was only marginally better, not so filthy, but just as disorganized. Nothing significant stood out. No file left open, half-perused, no scribbled notes on the legal pad. It was hard to say if they might have pulled a case that had them rush out the door that morning, perhaps that lead them to a place with no cell service. Not entirely improbable, considering vast portions of the bayou obviously boasted no cell towers.

But there was someone who might have some intel on the whereabouts of her two missing boys.

Brody called the coroner's office. When she was finally connected through to Dr. Wade, the medical examiner informed her that the last she'd seen of the two missing agents, they'd been standing in on her preliminary examination of the recently discovered corpse of Coporal Richard Waller.

/They got a call and rushed right on outta here./

"Do you know what the call was about?" Brody asked. It could've just as easily been entirely unrelated to the case, but her gut told her to go with the only lead she had. And she'd spent enough time with Agent Jethro Gibbs, and now Agent Dwayne Pride, to know to trust her instincts.

/Not specifically, no, Agent Brody. But Pride did say they'd caught a lead, before he and LaSalle went runnin' off./

"And I don't suppose they let you in on any specifics of said lead?"

/You know you agents.../

Brody sighed. She needed to train her boys to play better with others. Oh, they were all smiles and southern charm, but they played their cards close to their vests. And now if they'd gotten into some sort of trouble, it might just cost them severely.

"Alright, Dr. Wade. Can you send me your final report? Maybe that will provide a clue to where Pride and LaSalle have run off to. I'll let you know-"

/Wait a minute, dear. Sebastian just rushed in here and is jumpin' up and down like a kid in a candy shop./

Brody heard the medical examiner attempt to calm the overenthusiastic forensics geek in distant, partially muffled tones, and then there was a change in the sound quality, sounds coming through sharper and tinnier.

And then Loretta Wade's dulcet tones returned.

/Now, Sebastian, tell Agent Brody what's got you all worked up./

Sebastian's much more agitated voice began to clip out the information he had to impart at a rapid pace.

/The substance found on Waller's clothing was, just as suspected -although I don't know where Agent Pride found the data on which to base his initial surmise-/

"Sebastian, please!" Brody didn't feel guilty for snapping at the rambling man over the phone. Normally, she'd try to be more diplomatic, but there was that uneasy feeling twisting her gut, making her feel like she was under the wire. "In simple terms, what have you found? And what does it have to do with whatever case Pride and LaSalle are working?"

/Gold, Agent Brody!/

"Gold?"

/Well, actually the traces of gold dust were negligible, but combined with the presence of a cyanide solution and zinc on the deceased's clothing…/

"English, Sebastian."

/The corporal was likely involved in the process of melting down gold, specifically gold with impurities./

_Gold? _What the hell? Were they in some sort of Indiana Jones movie?

"And you told Pride this?" she asked, trying to confirm the specifics of what her fellow agents knew, what they had to go on, before they disappeared.

/He made me make any educated guess, yes./

"And then they left in a hurry?"

/Well, he received a phone call first./

"Is that all you guys got?"

/Unfortunately, yes./ Loretta joined the conversation once more. /I wish we could shed some more light on the case for you, Agent Brody. But we honestly don't know where the evidence may have taken Agents Pride and LaSalle./

"It's a start, Loretta," Brody said, noting the concern in the older woman's tone, one that hinted Dr. Wade likely also had an uneasy feeling in her gut. "Thanks, guys."

/Let us know when you hear anything./

"Will do."

Brody ended the call. The clues had to be here, in the office. Her boys had no more information than she did right now, and yet they had gone off (knowing them, half-cocked) and apparently had gotten themselves into some sort of trouble...

_Or she was just freaking out for no good reason. _

She tried calling both of their cell phones again, but was directed to voicemail for each.

_Or not..._

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><p><strong>AN: Well, at least Brody's aware there's trouble… Now can she figure out where the boys are, and save their butts?**


	3. 11:30am

**Author's Note: Sorry about the delay. I debated where I wanted to divide up chapters/the timing of the plot development for this… (Also distracted with rewatching episodes and yes, writing LaSalle/Brody smut). But on with the action-based fic…**

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><p>Brody allowed herself to chew her left index fingernail for half a minute, fidgeting off the sort of distress that would only lead to unproductive panic. Which was silly, right?<p>

Except that bad feeling.

What harm would there be in figuring out where the absent agents had gone, anyway? Whether or not her instincts were correct in their unease, it wasn't like she had any other pressing matters to attend to, not that she knew of, at least.

So, there was a body. And a case. There had to be a file. She went to Pride's desk first, went through the paperwork once more, with more of an idea of what should stand out. Corporal Waller, or anything related to his name, rank, division, or... _gold_? It proved a fruitless search, which made her feel stupid, like she were running around in circles without a clue, as she returned again to LaSalle's unkempt desk.

The files she'd thought merely old ones that he'd neglected to put away proved otherwise when examined under a whole new set of criteria. For the top folder contained the military record of one Corporal Richard Waller, reported MIA in Iraq in 2005, apparently along with a few other members of his unit. She eagerly perused the report, pacing as she did so.

How had a man gone missing in a war zone to show up recently deceased in the NO morgue? The marine corps thought him dead, and after ten years it should've been a solid conclusion. But he'd been alive up until a couple days ago. Just seriously AWOL... Desertion. But what would make a marine with such an otherwise spotless record do such a thing?

According to the file, he and his men had been following up on several leads, tips from locals about stashes of looted treasures from the time of the invasion, the siege on the Iraqi Museum in 2003. Could it be the gold link in all of this? But why wait so long to sell it off? To resurface in the US?

Then again, maybe he just hadn't been caught before now. Well, technically Waller had never been caught, not by the authorities anyway, not alive.

But it was all speculation that got her no closer to figuring out where her missing boys went. She needed to find a way to retrace Pride and LaSalle's steps...

Putting the file down, Brody dug out the keyboard from beneath a mix of files, legos and chip crumbs (of an apparently nacho variety, judging by the orange dust) and woke up LaSalle's computer. He'd unfortunately logged off. Well, it was protocol, so she couldn't really fault him for that. The agent may be sloppy in some ways (such as keeping a neat desk), but he was squared away in all the ways that mattered. Which in this particular case, was not helpful to her.

Although... She smiled broadly to herself, clicked on the field for entering the password, and typed in 'BigAl2003'. When it gave her an 'incorrect login-password combination error' she wasn't discouraged. She tried two more variations on her original guess, and then the system began to load.

The system might not be very hackable, but LaSalle was.

The last search he ran was on a Ferragus Dubeau, a known blackmarket merchant based here in New Orleans. Okay, so the two agents obviously had some other information, that had led them to believe the middleman was the killer? Or just might know what sort of shady deals were going down in the city.

Perhaps she should pay Mr. Dubeau a visit...

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><p>Apparently, Ferragus Dubeau did not <em>like <em>visitors.

"Don't do it," Merri said, as the surprisingly scrawny, slightly weasel-like man eyed the open door behind him. There was an obstacle course of 'antiques' between him and the exit, but by this point in her career, she could sense when someone was about to pull a runner. And she wasn't especially in the mood to chase his ass down, and was a little more inclined than usual to just shoot him, despite her desire for some fricken answers as to what the hell was going on. "I just want-"

He ran.

Unsurprisingly, his quick, twitchy movements were also quite weasel-like as he dashed out of the antiquities shop, hopping over a couple shabby trunks, and skirting around a dingy wing-backed chair, emerging into the back alley. Swearing under her breath, Meredith Brody gave chase, feeling like she were back in her probie training days, running that damned course _affectionately _dubbed The Gauntlet. Normally, she'd have a partner standing back up, covering the back entrance, waiting with a fist or perhaps some sort of blunt instrument to clothesline the sucker as he rounded a corner.

But it was just her on this one. So she pushed herself hard, glad she kept up with her running, made sure her legs were strong enough to chase down such skittish suspects.

God, but Dubeau was fast, too.

Dammit. He was the only lead she had.

Her chest was heaving for air, her muscles burning as she forced them to their limits and the lactic acid built up in her straining tissues. But she was gaining on him. In fact, after slowing to turn the corner at the next side alley, she was only a few yards behind him.

Six feet.

He was flagging. She wasn't.

Three feet.

No holds barred, she tackled him without hesitation, plowing herself into his middle, throwing off his center of gravity, their combined momentum sending them crashing into the pavement. Her victim groaned loudly, painfully, but she fought down her own urge to vocalize her displeasure at finding herself tumbled to the ground, bruising her elbow, and oh, look at that...

She hastily flipped Dubeau onto his stomach upon the rather filthy and cracked asphalt, forcing his arms up to cuff his wrists behind his back. Then she took a moment to catch her breath, still literally sitting on her prisoner.

...She'd torn the elbow of her favorite grey blazer. She rather like that jacket, too. Glancing around, she discovered that the patchy asphalt overlaying exposed cobblestone pavement, uneven, rough edged, and coated with grime, was likely responsible.

"Why'd you make me do that, Mr. Dubeau?" She asked, letting her ire show a little in her voice. She noted the garbage can lying on its side with its contents disgorged in an avalanche of rot not four feet to their left. "Now we're both likely to contract some sort of nasty disease rolling around in this filth."

Having caught her breath slightly, she hauled herself then her prisoner to their feet, and walked him back to the vehicle. And although she couldn't help feeling that every minute Pride and LaSalle were out of contact only made the situation more pressing, Brody decided to carry out her questioning of the blackmarket merchant in the interrogation room back at the office, where she could really have at him, scare him into singing like a canary, without the distractions of a noisy, busy street, or letting him remain in his own comfort zone, in that nest of dust and junk (which probably had untold hidden caches of stolen valuables… a search would probably be in order later, when they recovered their full manpower).

Also, they had iodine in the extensive medical cabinet back at HQ, and she planned on pouring a liberal amount over the bleeding patch of skin on her elbow. Sister Jones, a wrinkled old battleaxe of the WWII vintage who served as nurse at her first boarding school swore by iodine. _The burnin' means it's workin'_. Somehow, the notion had stuck in Brody's brain, and it was still her go-to for first aid situations. In fact, if she didn't watch it, she'd be pouring the stuff over bullet wounds... definitely not advisable. Nor medically sound.

Maybe she could threaten Dubeau with the stuff. He had a pretty good gash on his head, that for the sake of regulations she was currently pretending not to notice. What cut? Who needed professional medical attention? Certainly not the only lead on the whereabouts of her missing agents...

Off to interrogation we go.

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><p><strong>AN: I had meant for this chapter to be longer originally, hence the delay, but decided the narrative required a different layout/tact.**


	4. 12:00pm

**Author's Note: Sorry, it's just a short one. But the Pride and LaSalle interludes are going to be that way…**

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><p>"Well what d'ya got, Christopher?" Pride asked, his voice still raised over the din of a well-worn pump system and streaming water. They'd split up, each covering half of the ballast tank, examining the metal bulkheads for anything offering alternative escape. It had taken nearly an hour... the water level was now knee-high. It was difficult to move with even a slower-than-normal gait, and exhausting, too. If like himself, LaSalle had ended up empty-handed, then they had only expended valuable energy, energy they might soon need to keep their heads above water.<p>

"Well, as far as I can see," the younger agent said. "There's only one spot that might do us some good. Looks like it rusted out an's been patched."

"Show me."

Pride followed his junior agent, wading through the somewhat cold water. Any colder and then there would be other things to worry about than simply drowning. LaSalle stopped, about thirty feet beyond the ladder, shining his light on the outer bulkhead at what was obviously a recent weld. About four inches of it was visible above the water line, and the rough edge like a scar on the bulkhead only ran along for about a foot and a half. If they could compromise it, would it really provide a means of escape?

"Think if we bash that weld out, we'll be able to squeeze through there?"

LaSalle gave a noncommittal look, before glancing down at his wet pant legs, now submerged past his knees and frowning.

"The question is, where d' ya think it leads, King?"

"Not sure, but outta this sardine can, has gotta be a step in the right direction."

If the ballast tank had a double bulkhead, puncturing a hole would at least give the water another space to fill and slow the rate at which the water was rising, even if they couldn't find a way out. It was on the interior side of the ballast tank, not on the outer shell, so they shouldn't accidentally drown themselves... drown faster, anyway.

"Wanna use them gold bricks?" LaSalle asked, bending over to examine the weld more closely. "We're not gonna get 'nough force swingin' through the water. We'll hafta try loosin it up along here."

"Which means we only have about fifteen minutes before the entire patch is submerged."

Pride schlepped back to the ladder, reaching down into the increasing depths of cool, dirty harbor water where they'd stashed the case of the stolen treasure, soaking his arm up to the shoulder. When he returned to his junior agent's side, he handed him a gold brick, which although malleable, should be hefty enough to bash away at the steel weld.

Soon the cacophony of rushing water and stuttering machinery was joined by the clanging of their blows hammering away at their only means of escape.

And all the while, the water level rose…


	5. 2:00pm

**Author's Note: Sorry about the delay with this one. I get distracted by the shippy fics. :-) **

**Warning: Some Coarse Language.**

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><p>Gotchya!<p>

Brody quickly thanked Patton Plame for coming in on the very short notice she'd given him in order to help her track her missing boys' digital trail, and strode, practically ran, towards the interrogation room and the suspect she left stewing in silence there.

Ferragus Dubeau looked up at her, his dark eyes showing alarm at her appearance. Good. She hoped it was because she looked intimidating. Or because her triumph was apparent on her face. She opened the file Patton had given her, took out the top photo, and slammed it on the table in front of her only lead as to the whereabouts of Agents Pride and LaSalle. The weasely 'shop owner' started, his uncomfortable metal chair scraping noisily against the cement floor.

"Tell me again how you've never seen either of these two men."

During round one of questioning, she'd showed him photos of Pride and LaSalle, whom he denied ever having laid eyes upon, let alone being visited by the pair of agents earlier that morning. The photo she'd placed in front of him this time had been pulled by Patton Plame from a youtube video of an improv street dance session that occurred just outside Dubeau's shop. The tech wizard was good. While slightly blurry, since they were in the background, it was still undeniably the two missing agents and the man currently looking like a frightened ferret. "What did you talk about?"

Dubeau's cheek twitched right below his left eye, and she could tell he was closer to cracking, yet he still held his tongue. So Brody pulled the next sheet from the file folder and placed it next to the photo.

"We've got you on about three dozen counts of trafficking stolen goods," she said, indicating the series of user and bank accounts that linked the black market dealer sitting in front of her to underground websites that traded in illegal goods ranging from firearms to stolen artwork to looted artifacts. "You're going away for a long time."

Dubeau sighed. "What's the deal you offering?"

"No deal," she said. "But maybe I put in a good word with the DA's office ... if you tell me where my missing agents are."

"Not good 'nough, sweetheart," he said, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. "That's all circumstantial evidence. It won't stick."

He was right, but he didn't need to know that. Brody stared him down. The confidence in his demeanor wasn't total. He was nervous, because he did know something, but whatever it was it was somehow still worth it to him to keep his mouth shut. Which meant it wasn't good. If Pride and LaSalle had simply shown up, asked the man a few questions and left, then he would've been able to say just that and get her off his back. But he wasn't talking at all. Because he was more afraid of someone else than he was of her threats of criminal prosecution?

She walked around the table, behind the man, gently pushed the already unbalanced chair leg and caused the man to fall backward, hitting the cement floor with a loud _crack_ of metal and _thunk_ of skull. She crouched down beside the groaning man, and shouted in his face.

"Where are they?!"

"Goddamnit, bitch," he muttered. "What the hell was that?"

"That was just an accident. Didn't your mother ever tell you not to lean back in your chair like that?" She stared him straight in the eye, to make sure he knew she was serious. "What happens next _won't_ be an accident."

Dubeau swallowed, and she fought the smile of pleasure from showing on her face, for she could see it in his eyes that he'd finally snapped. She'd only had to make him more afraid of her than who he was protecting.

"Fine. I'll talk," he said, throwing his hands up. "Just back off with the crazy cop act."

"Let me help you up." Maybe her tone was a little too artificially sweet, her grin too wolfish.

"No. I got it," he said, hastily scrambling onto his hands and knees and pushing himself to his feet. Brody grabbed the chair placed it in front of the table once more, indicating he should resume his seat. His eyes never left her as she walked around, grabbed the other chair from the corner of the room and then sat down across from him, like he were a small furry animal and she was a wildcat on the prowl, like she might pounce again at any moment, play with her prey a little more.

"Talk," she said.

"They come to harass me about some dead marine and missing Iraqi gold," Dubeau said.

"And...?" She reached for the file, and pulled it in front of her, the quick movement of her hand making the man flinch. It was probably wrong, but she got a hell of a lot of joy from breaking a suspect like this.

"And I tole them I didn't know nothin' and sent them on their way."

Bullshit. If that was all, he would've told her that earlier. She stared at him for half a minute, cold and steady, watching the beads of sweat pop out on the dark skin of his large forehead.

"That's not all you did, though, was it, Mr. Dubeau?"

He shook his head.

"You'd better tell me everything now," she said, leaning forward slightly. "Because if I found out you withheld something..."

"I called the buyers," he said. "Johnson -_Waller, whatever his name was_- I didn't know he was a missing marine, an' I didn't know he was dead until your people showed up. An' I didn't know it was looted Iraqi gold. I only knew he was lookin' to sell and there were people lookin' to buy. I wasn't even the middleman, really. I just made an introduction."

"Who are the buyers? And what did you ask them to do about the NCIS agents looking into the case?"

"I didn't ask them to do nothin'..." He shifted his weight in his seat, an obvious sign of guilt. He may not have specifically asked for something bad to happen to Pride and LaSalle, but Dubeau sure as hell knew what the consequences of making that call would be.

"Names," she said, trying to ignore that knot of unease that had been quelled by her small victory but was now transforming into one of dread, and growing by the minute.

"The Conley brothers." Since he'd already started talking, Dubeau no longer seemed concerned about keeping his trap shut, likely because he'd just implicated himself in commissioning a violent act against federal agents. Not to mention the dead former marine. "They're part of some dumb cracker militia group. Stockpiling gold for the apocalypse or whatever. If it's too hot for other people, them's the ones I call. Crazy fuckers, them."

Shit. Did she really have to deal with some psychotic hicks? God, all she might find of her boys were the pieces the gators didn't want. She suddenly felt sick, wordlessly stood and left the interrogation room.

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><p><strong>AN: Major kick ass time coming up soon, I promise. But first, we might want to check back in with our boys…**


End file.
